


my love was like the rain

by celestial_txt



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Au Ra Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Bondage, Consensual Kink, F/F, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Temperature Play, Vaginal Fingering, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:22:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27357214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestial_txt/pseuds/celestial_txt
Summary: Ysayle drags a thumb over the swell of your lower lip. “I want to tie you up. Will you let me?”“Please, yes,yes please.” The words pour out of you, your pleas finally answered. You have wanted her, and this, for so long that you are dripping wet just at her words.Ysayle and the Warrior of Light find solace with each other.
Relationships: Ysayle Dangoulain/Reader, Ysayle Dangoulain/Warrior of Light
Comments: 18
Kudos: 66





	my love was like the rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyiceheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyiceheart/gifts).



> For Mel. Thank you for putting up with me crying about how terrible I am at writing Ysayle.

Ysayle has long, elegant fingers. You wonder if she would ever want to be a piano player or harpist, even as she pushes them into your mouth and your tongue curls around them, between them, taking them all the way so that your lips close around the knuckles. 

You wonder at all the other lives she could have lived — and distantly, all the ones you could have too — but what do they matter compared to how she pulls her fingers out to work a third into your mouth and have you drooling around them. Swallowing best you can, a drop of saliva still spills out from the corner of your mouth, trickling down over your scales, and she smirks. 

“Messy,” she admonishes. She removes her fingers from your mouth and shoves you back down onto the ground through putting her hand on your face, getting your saliva all over. The cool air makes you feel even filthier, stinging as it dries down on your skin.

You are still wearing your armor and you desperately want her to give the sign to take it off, but she doesn't care about you like that in this moment. She wants you worked up, needy under her hand. You want it too. Have wanted it — _and her_ — since you met again. It's only now the two of you have figured out the shape of each other's desires and oh, how neatly they slot together.

So many things in your life are a tangled mess so when she fixed you with her cool gaze, you could not stop thinking about it. It startled you that she was going through the same.

And now you can't get enough of her. 

Things haven’t been clear in a long time, but with her, you forget everything else for brief flashes of perfect bliss. Ysayle makes sense to your tired frozen body, makes it respond eagerly each time she deigns to touch you. It's not every night she does. Sometimes she just watches, her eyes gleaming under the moonlight as she forces a gag into your mouth to keep you from crying out.

Need has got you both tangled up in each other, and frustration with everything else fuels it. You both want things to be _better._ A simple desire, leading down such thorny paths. 

Together, you weave moments of sheer pleasure, stolen between duty and atonement with your searching hands. 

Ysayle drags her wet fingers down your throat, playing with the strings keeping your shirt together. “How hard do you want it tonight?”

The sun has barely risen over the mountain range and she is already playing the long game. “I want it now,” you whine, squirming under her as she straddles your waist and leans over you. 

“Tonight,” she repeats, dragging her cool slick fingers up over your chin.

“I don't think I can last that long.” You are whiny, you are greedy, and she finds it an entertaining trait of yours to toy with because it annoys her.

“You will.” She yanks at your hair, baring your throat to her sharp teeth that graze your skin and drive you wild. “You don't have much of a choice.”

She leaves a mark and after she climbs off you, after you both dust off and get back to the day's matters at hand, you keep slipping your fingers under the collar to press against the bruise she left there, the heady ache a promise of more.

You two didn’t exactly hit it off clean from the start, both bristling with failure and miscalculations and annoyance, and the cold had a way of getting deep into your bones and making your patience wafer-thin.

You were both righteous, once. Now? Now you’re both failures.

Truth cuts horrid like that. But the mistakes in you she sees in herself, the burden mirrored in her. You don’t need to talk about it because _you know_ , you see it in her eyes under the moonlight when she watches you touch yourself at night, when she whispers for you to go slow, to stop, to pinch your clit until you cry.

She sees it, she knows you, she lets you beg her for release, she lets you lick her fingers clean, she makes you feel as used as you ask her to do. 

You fucked up.

You trusted the wrong people.

You just want to let go. 

You have grown used to the cold, just like she has grown used to how hot your skin runs. She used to think you were feverish, pressing her cool hand to your forehead in concern. Now she knows better — and she uses it against you, in the most delicious ways possible. She is a quick study of you, figuring out all too quick that the best way to make your knees buckle is to run her fingers along the seam of where your horns meet your skull, the sensitive skin there filled with aching nerve-endings. 

You wish you knew even a quarter of that about her. 

At lunch Ysayle drags you off and you know that the pretence of going foraging for herbs that Marchechamp needs is a weak cover at best, but nobody seems to care. 

She slams you up against a tree trunk and you’re fast to undo the belt at your waist, her slender hand slips past the layers of clothing and she laughs at you even as her fingers tease along the wet slit. 

“Been like this since morning?”

“Yes.”

You rock your hips forward, hoping for more pressure, more force in those digits, but she lays them flat on either side of your labia and it drives you mad. 

She clamps a hand over your mouth and you try to bite the soft skin, nipping as best you can with your sharp teeth. 

“I told you, tonight.” A cold current of aether runs between the fingers at your sex, the sweet sting of cool pain cutting through your heated desire. It wrenches a scream out of you, muffled against the palm of her hand. Tears press at the corners of your eyes, evidence of how she gets under your skin. 

You soften against the tree trunk, and she removes her hand and kisses your mouth. “What do you want tonight?”

“I want you to wreck me,” you say, meeting her gaze in a way that makes her shiver. 

You give her so much power, every day, because you love her and you want her to know that, because the words stutter in your mouth, because you’re terrified of telling anyone those words in case you lose them. Loss weighs on both of you, the error of a number gone the wrong way, the false faith in your own judgement, so you keep your mouths clean from those kinds of declarations.

Your bodies, however, tell different tales. Bodies are traitorous and lovely like that. 

She drags her lips against yours, thoughtful. “Wreck you how?” She never settles for just that. She demands precision.

“I want you to take what you want from me. I’ll give you all of it, willingly.”

“Pretty words, but you’re not telling me what you want.” She punctuates her words with removing her hand from your trousers, pinching at your hard nipples through the fabric of your shirt. The touch hits like a levinbolt to your core. She knows you so well already. 

Laying your desires bare is such a terrifying prospect. You wonder when it will be too much, when she will be disgusted with you. You have always been a mess of strange desires and you are ready to fall to your knees right now and worship her cunt with your mouth if it means not having to be this vulnerable.

But she has you pinned and she’s never let you touch her like that, never even undressed before you. She has taken you, fucked you, all while dressed, made you come on her thigh and lick the fabric clean but she has never let you take part of her. 

You want that, too. Oh, how much you _want_. It makes you dizzy.

You bite back the instinct to hide from her like she hides from you and brace yourself, staring at her jawline as you speak. “I want you to be rough and I want to hurt. I want to ache.” She stays quiet, making you nervous. “Could you… Would you hurt me? Please?”

“You’re so strange, sometimes.” She brushes your hair from forehead, curiously tender as her thumb traces the scale formation over the ridge of your nose. “I’ll think about it.”

Hope makes you brave. It’s like a critical flaw in you, makes you bold, makes you stupid. “That’s not a no.” It makes you lovable. “It’s not a no,” she says back, smiling a little. Her hand slides back up to your hair, grabbing it tentatively, and then she pulls you away from the tree. You gasp at the searing pain, but you smile at her, smile even as she shoves you down onto your knees and point out which herbs you need to dig out with the root intact. 

It’s such a simple thing, pain. Dreadful most of the time, but in the hands of just the right person, it’s pure and simple _bliss_.

By the time you return to Tailfeather you have a dazed expression and red crescent marks hidden under your hair, the smile on your face not fading even as you go about the dull task of peeling the roots with your stiff, frozen fingers. 

You’re foolish, yes, but you have wanted something like this for so long.

Ysayle’s icy eyes follow you throughout the day, but you struggle to find a moment to slip away, to entice her to come along. Neither of you dare to let others know, not yet — this thing between you, it’s so tender still. It is all yours, as fragile as it feels, and letting others in, letting their judgement weigh what you two are to each other… Not yet. Not yet. 

But a question lingers at the forefront of your mind, even as you try to busy your restless hands with small things to do around Tailfeather. As much as she watches you, you watch her back from under the curtain of your hair, and finally find an opening to follow her. 

You wait long enough, counting to fifteen (though you rush the numbers, eager as always) and then dodge behind the same house, seeing only her there. 

“We don’t have long,” Ysayle says, even as she hooks her fingers around the delicate skin at your horns in a way that has you moaning against her lips. It nearly wipes all sense out of your mind. Nearly. 

You find enough strength to peel yourself away from her long enough to make her look concerned, the furrow between her brows one that most misread for a scowl. 

“Nothing’s the matter,” you say quickly, voice almost tripping over the words. “It’s all good. _Really_ good, with you. But what do you want?”

She opens her mouth, closes it again. 

“Ysayle. What do you want from me?” You take her hands in yours. “What can my hands do for you?” You suck her thumb into your mouth. “What can my mouth do for you?” 

Your body is a promise and you want to make good on it, for her. It’s not selfishness that has kept you from offering — indeed, you make this offer every day. She declines. There is a hesitation in her, a reluctance to open up and partake, but you are patient. You ask again every day, with the same open promise, the same enduring hopeful patience. 

You want her to take of you, and to take you. 

She licks her lips. “This is good. It’s enough.”

“I want to give back to you. Always. I’m greedy, yes, but greedier for you to feel good.”

A flicker passes across her face, a thing so brief but promising that it has your eyes widening. Is today the day? Please, _please—_

Ysayle shoves you against the wall and presses herself against you, caging you in. Her hands are quick, knowing the clasps of your armor by heart, undoing them just enough so that she can slip a hand in. Her fingers warm up against your skin, and her teeth graze your neck as her hand moves down between your legs. 

“Please,” you whine before she has even done anything to you, desperate and hungry as you are. 

“Spread your legs more,” she says, and you obey. Two fingers tease, just for a moment, and then spear into you. You’re embarrassingly wet, have been all day, and she delights in it, her long fingers curving inside of you. She opens her mouth, sucks in a breath, and you sense the hesitation, the words poised on the tip of her tongue. You hold your breath, hoping, aching.

“You’re a filthy _mess_ ,” she hisses at you, the disgust and adoration dripping in equal measure from her voice, and it undoes you. You clench around her fingers, a moan slipping past your lips, and you come. It’s so sudden and fast that it shocks even you. She barely did anything, and yet… Yet it was enough. Your cheeks burn with shame. 

She lets out a surprised laugh, her fingers pulling out from you and you whine, the gush of wetness following in their wake even more embarrassing. 

“Needy little thing,” she says, pushing her wet fingers — her fingers soaked with _you_ — into your mouth, and you obediently suck on them, wrapping your tongue around the digits. Tasting yourself on her never ceases to be strange, to be delicious, and it drives you wild with how much you want her to get inside of you and mess you up. 

She replaces her fingers with her mouth, kissing you deep.

“Let me do the same to you,” you whisper against her lips between kisses. “Let me do anything to you, please. It’s what I want.”

“You really are greedy.” Her lips trail down your neck, over your bare shoulder where the tunic has dropped down. Your eyes flutter close and you lean back against the wall, an invitation for her… And then the pressure against you is gone, and you wait for a moment, two, but she doesn’t come back. 

The frustration settles into you, and you lace yourself up with forehead leaning against the wall, breathing hard and heavy, cheeks flushed. Your tail swishes in the air, whipping up a dust cloud of dirt, and you know you will have to dunk yourself in the icy river flow to cleanse it all off. 

When you round the corner you spot Ysayle chatting with the merchants, and you peek glances at her as she sizes things up in her hands, her fingers always drawing your attention even from a distance. She buys something, taking a wrapped package from the vendor, and then the small chores of the evening begin piling up, taking your attention. 

After a quick dinner eaten alone you go up the river to a waterfall, sitting on the bank as you ready yourself for the icy water to envelop you. 

Dry grass and leaves crackle behind you, and you whip your head around. Out of instinct your hand has reached for the dagger you keep, but you relax your grip as you see it’s only Ysayle. Under the last rays of sunlight of the day, she looks radiant, the long silver hair framing her beautiful face. You want to tangle your fingers in it and get lost in her.

“Don’t let me keep you,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. 

It’s the first time you undress fully for her in a way where she can _see_ you — it has always been with at least some piece of clothing still on, hands shoved down your pants. You try to hide the smile best you can, your hands fumbling with the lacing before you finally manage to undo it. Your tail curls around your legs after you shed the final piece of clothing, laid bare in front of her icy gaze. 

Her gaze is low, at your ankles, and moves up slowly. She is taking you in, and you are seen in a way you never have been before. Ysayle’s gaze is so cool, so direct, that you shiver under the weight of it. When it moves up over your body, you feel it, feel _her_ taking you in, and you keep your hands at your sides. Despite the chill in the air and the cold spray hitting your back from the waterfall, a heat is building in you, a warmth she stokes simply by being near you. 

“Beautiful,” she says. She takes a step closer to you, putting her hand on your chest and tracing the soft scales that dip between your breasts. Every day you oil them, care for them, pick away the shedding ones, and yet no one sees your handiwork here. Not until now. Not until her. 

She presses on your chest, nudging you towards the water. “You should clean yourself up before I make a mess of you again.”

Settling down on a rock, she crosses one leg over the other and watches as you bite back the whine building in your throat, both from the need and from the cold as the water burns at your heated skin. 

You look at her as you run your hands over your body, guiding the water over your skin, flicking the tail so that it sends water flying at her. It does not take long for the chill to settle in, and you rush as you work the water through your hair and step out of the waterfall.

“I think not,” Ysayle says, her words stopping you dead in your tracks. Her voice has a gravity in it that makes you swallow: you know what comes next. The way her voice drops to a husky low already has your cunt aching. “Stay there. Touch yourself.”

Normally you would want to make a good show out of it, get her worked up in turn, but the water has you shivering. You run your hands down between your legs, leaning back against the wet rock wall and finding purchase for one of your feet, enough to let her see. Spreading the lips, you feel the slippery wetness of yourself, your sex aching and hot. 

The mere touch against your clit has you sighing and biting your lip, shooting her a pleading look.

“Two fingers.” Her brow furrows. “No. Three.”

Plunging three in at once you angle them best you can, hitting the spot within while you rub at your clit, merciless in how hard you’re chasing that bliss. Driven on by how cold you’re getting and how terribly close you are, there’s a wild frenzy in your movements, until you raise your head and meet her eyes. 

The way she is looking at you, at your cunt, spread wide like it is — you don’t know what to do with yourself. There is so much tenderness in her that you lose your rhythm, your fingers thrusting shallower, slower. The unguarded moment lasts all too briefly before she meets your eyes, and you hope the water hides the heat in your cheeks.

“Remove your hands. That’s good enough.”

Reluctantly you remove your fingers, trying to get one last flick in but it is not enough, you were so close, so painfully close and she denied you. 

She smiles, a soft little quirk to her lips as she rises and dusts herself off “You know where to find me when you’re ready tonight.”

You stay under the waterfall until your pulse slows down, until you stop feeling like fire is licking at your skin. 

Back in Tailfeather you don’t hesitate, your wet hair wrung out but still a damp mess as you enter her room. She is sitting the rickety wooden table, book in her hands, candles lit in front of her.

“Lock the door, please.” She closes the book as you do as told, and then you stand there, unsure of what to do with your body. It screams at you of what you want, her on top of you and inside of you and spreading you apart — but you hesitate, a shiver passing down your spine as you watch her take two candles and place them closer to the bed.

She beckons you close, brushing the damp hair from your exposed shoulder, her delicate fingertips tracing the wave forms of your scales there. “I need you to say when it’s too much.”

“I will,” you promise. 

“Good.” Ysayle drags a thumb over the swell of your lower lip. “I want to tie you up. Will you let me?”

“Please, yes, yes _please_.” The words pour out of you, your pleas finally answered. You have wanted her, and this, for so long that you are dripping wet just at her words. 

“Marchechamp will understand.” She reaches for a folded-up sheet at the foot of the bed and tears it into strips, no wider than ribbons, and she only has to look at you once to get you to undress. 

Your fingers move in a frenzy, scratching at the fabric and ripping a seam as you work the articles of clothing off your body. She raises an eyebrow at your carelessness, folding the ripped sheet strips up neatly and waiting for you to be completely naked.

Barely have you made it out of your trousers before she pushes you back onto the bed and you whimper for a kiss, but she is more focused on wrapping those fabric strips around you, using them as makeshift ties. She grabs your right wrist and brings it down to your right ankle, tying them together with a few quick knots and repeats the same on the left limbs, leaving you exposed. 

When she is done, she finally leans down to kiss you, her lips so soft against yours that are cracked from the chill winds, her fingertips so soft as they hold your chin. The hunger creeps into her too, mirrored from how you whine against her mouth, the grip tightening and the pressure increasing.

Stepping back she undresses and makes you watch. There is nothing teasing about how she sheds her garments, but you are aching so much for her touch that it feels like an eternity. As she stands before you, fully naked, it strikes you that you have never seen her like this. She fingers a scar at her hip and guilt stabs through you — you cut her there during your first confrontation. It seems lifetimes ago. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, and she smiles softly, not looking at you. 

“I’ll make you apologize better than that.”

She kneels between your legs, a loud wet noise filling the room as she slides two fingers into you. 

“You’re filthy wet.”

“I’ve wanted you all day,” you say, trying to buck against her fingers, wanting them deeper inside of you, wanting more, wanting to be filled until you feel the stretch. Much to your frustration, she pulls them out, leaving you on the verge of tears. 

She reaches over to grab a candle, holding it over your stomach. With precision, she drops a little wax over her own hand, hissing sharply. “You wanted pain. Will you take it?”

You shudder in excitement. “Yes.” 

She angles her hand and a single drop of the wax hits your stomach, and you gasp. The heat stings, then settles into a comfortable warmth, almost soothing from how cold you have been all day. You nod, barely able to meet her eyes, so expectant to watch the wax hit your skin again. She drips only a little, making a path up from belly to chest, and she holds your eyes as she drips it over your breasts.

The heat hurts from a brief second before it spreads through your body, the persistent drip circling around your nipples before covering them. A gush of wetness floods between your thighs as you whine and writhe, the sensation so much, so good, so intense. You mouth her name, struggling to form words, and she pauses. She is attuned, so careful and perceptive, and for once you wish she’d just be a little bit rough and careless with you. 

“Ysayle… More, _please_.”

She smiles. “When you beg that well.”

Shifting between your legs, she holds the candle higher and both of your eyes follow the agonizingly slow drops as they fall onto your mound. You cry out, straining against the ripped sheets.

“You still want it, despite how it hurts.”

“Yes,” you choke out. You want it because it hurts. You want it because it is her, hurting you, and because you know that if you broke and asked her to stop, _she would_. 

She takes her time, dripping the wax along the inside of your thighs, driving you wild before she finally brings it to your clit. The pain rides on the edge of pleasure, interweaving perfectly as it crashes through you like a tide, wrenching a deep guttural cry from your chest. You arch upwards best you can, chasing it wantonly, and she keeps dripping until you come down from the high.

“Good?”

You nod, swallowing thickly. Forming words still seems too much, too strange to grasp, but she seems to have other uses for your mouth in mind. 

Putting the candle back into its holder, she climbs onto the bed and drags her fingers through your hair. “You said you wanted to give. So give.” She lowers herself over your face and you stick your tongue out in anticipation, yearning to lap at her, yearning to give back even a fraction of all she has done to you, for you.

The salty taste of her unfolds on your tongue, and you tongue at her messily, getting her just as filthy and wet as you are. You feel the hesitation in her body as she repositions herself, less pressure on your face, and you whine, angling your head so that the sharp tip of your horn drags along the inside of her thigh hard enough to make her wince. 

“Let me have you on my face,” you say, and she scoffs, leaning over your body to flick the hardened wax off of you. Tied up as you still are, there is nothing you can do but gasp and squirm, the cool air of the room hitting against your sore nipples. 

Not one to be outdone, you raise your head higher and close your lips around her clit to suck, delighting in the noises it wrenches from her. 

She grinds down against your mouth, then rocks forward and another piece of wax is flicked off your stomach, making you curl your fingers into the sheets. The soft sting has you hissing even as you push your tongue into her, lapping at her as she drips onto your face. Her scent, her heat, it fills your senses, blotting out anything that isn’t her. 

For each sigh you get from her, she drags her nails over your skin, removing another piece of wax, her fingers slowly working their way down to your cunt again. You twist your tongue around her clit and she jerks her hips upwards with a moan, out of reach of your mouth. Her fingers pinch at your clit until the wax falls off, and the sensation has you trembling as you come embarrassingly easy for her. 

She climbs off you before you can return the favor, and you scowl at her as she leaves you alone on the bed. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” she says, pushing her long hair out of her face and tucking it behind her ears as she fishes a familiar package wrapped in brown paper out from behind a stack of books. Bringing it over to you, she sits down on the edge of the bed, not close enough to touch, making you watch as she unwraps the coarse string. 

“Tell me,” she says, opening the package to reveal a glass dildo, curved at the end. “How do you like it? Hot or cold? I’ll give you this choice.” 

You lick your lips. “Cold.”

“Good pick.” A swirl of frost blows from her lips onto the toy, and when it touches your lips you cry out. She does not give you much of a reprieve as she slides the glass toy into you, the chill of it slowly giving way as she moves it in slow thrusts, angling it upward. Your body heat seeps into the glass, the shift making it feel so delicious inside of you, your thighs quivering as she hits that spot within you. 

Your clit aches, untouched. She knows the best way to make you come is to stimulate both points at once, she wrenched that secret from you within just a few tempting kisses over a moon ago, you blushing then already with how much you wanted her. 

“Please,” you moan, your voice fraying, “please more, I…”

“You need what?”

“Touch my clit, please…”

“Not yet.”

You cry, trashing as best you can, and then you freeze as you feel her fingers working themselves in alongside the toy. The stretch inside of you, the increased pressure, it has you clenching around her. It is so much, exactly what you wanted, pushing you so fast towards the precipice of a mind-shattering orgasm that you struggle to stay still.

Ysayle bites the inside of your thigh, causing you to yelp. “Relax. Breathe.” 

You do as told, steadying your breathing, keeping it even as she slides the fingers deeper in alongside the toy, the pressure against that soft spot inside of you so intense that your knees shake. 

She re-positions herself on the bed, keeping the toy inside you with the help of her thigh and freeing up one hand to rub at your clit in hard strokes. It’s enough. It’s just right. You come, her fingers still plying you, spreading you wide in a way that makes you feel so exposed. You’re wet, dripping over her hands, and she is smiling at you wickedly. 

She does not let up, wrenching another out of you, and then a third, and on the cusp of the fourth you start crying even as you scream her name, as you beg for her to let you have it, _one more please I’ve been good, I need it, please please please_ — 

The scream builds in your throat and comes out like a cry, a sob torn from your lips as you come one final time, your entire body shaking in the aftermath. 

“Enough,” you whimper, blinking rapidly, “that’s… Good. I’m good.”

She strokes away the hair plastered to your forehead, planting a kiss at the scale formation there. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

When she undoes the ties around your limbs you roll your joints once, twice, and then spring at her with a feral hunger. You shove her back onto the bed and she gasps, her hands reaching for your horns to hold on to them. 

“You don’t have to, it’s fine.”

“I _want_ to.”

Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips, but then she relaxes back onto the bed even as she holds on to your horns. You allow her that control, at least, even when you wrap an arm around her hips to make sure she can’t move away this time, your hunger only able to be sated by her cunt. 

The other hand moves down between your kneeling legs. You keep your fingers inside of you, testing how open she worked you, filling yourself. There is no need to come again, not for now, but you enjoy the feeling of being full, of how she left you gaping and dripping. 

It takes her a while, many false starts and clenched thighs crushing against your face, and she apologises too much that it surprises you both when she comes in the middle of a hushed whine. You pin her down, working your mouth against her clit and your fingers moving out of you and into her. Hearing and feeling her come undone, feeling her come on your face, it undoes something in you too. You squeeze your thighs together as she comes again, smiling against her cunt even as she pulls you up by the horns. 

You kiss a messy trail up her body, draping over her lazily and covering her body with yours as she trembles beneath you. You undo the tangles in her hair, chin pressed against her breast as you listen for her heartbeat to slow down, a leg draped over hers to still the quivering. 

Her fingers tremble as they begin combing through your hair, her gaze still fixed on the ceiling above her. There are wet streaks going from the corners of her eyes down over her cheeks.

“What’s my tell?” You cannot help yourself, wiping at the tear stains on her face. 

“Hmm?” She blinks, refocusing her attention on you. 

“When I’m about to come. You always seem to know.”

She touches your left eyebrow where a scar cuts through the tail-end of it. “You got a muscle that spasms here. Every time. Even when you’re trying to be quiet.”

The tenderness that swells in your heart is too much to bear and you catch her finger with your lips, giving it a light bite until she laughs. Your body has said enough already, said all the things you cannot put into words. From the way she captures your mouth, biting your lower lip, you think she understands what you mean. 

Hope really makes you loveable. 

**Author's Note:**

> Long time no see! I was sick most of October or horribly busy. 
> 
> Title from Låpsley's song [My love was like the rain](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jmkjultuaFc).
> 
> My twitter is [@celestial_txt](https://twitter.com/celestial_txt) & [my carrd](https://celestial-txt.carrd.co/) is here.


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